


can i be happy living with your ghost?

by newtheglue



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Eliot Waugh, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Past Character Death, Quentin Coldwater Deserved Better, but he’s still dead sorry :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25374319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtheglue/pseuds/newtheglue
Summary: Eliot kisses Seb and Quentin isn’t on his mind.He kisses Charlton and Quentin is on his mind.or,Eliot learns to heal.
Relationships: Charlton/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	can i be happy living with your ghost?

**Author's Note:**

> listen to Only You by Matthew Perryman Jones while reading this for extra sad times

Eliot kisses Seb and Quentin isn’t on his mind.

Seb is… nothing like Q, not really. He’s harsh features and confidence where Quentin had been gentle and hesitant over every move. Eliot doesn’t think. Not of Q, not of the mosaic. His mind is blissfully quiet. There’s a numbness in his veins, but the emptiness is a relief after-

He _likes_ being with Seb. He’s an asshole. He’s pushy and narcissistic, and he’s not a _hero_. He’s the complete opposite of Quentin. 

He’s Eliot with a mask. It makes it easy, Eliot thinks. He can hate Seb because he knows all too well who Seb is. He’s attractive, but he isn’t _good._ He isn’t Quentin. He’s king because he _wants_ to be, not because he _has_ to be. Not because he’s some morally perfect person who only has power to aid the people of Fillory. He’s king because he _likes_ it, likes the rush of power the crown holds. The crown is an accessory, all pretty jewels stuck together with the blood he’d spilled to get it. There’s no weight, no burden. Just… pride and arrogance stitched together to form some crooked throne. 

He’s the Dark King where Quentin had been passionate and fair. The Moderately Socially Maladjusted, Margo had deemed him, all smiles and naivety at the coronation on the rocky beach. Quentin had smiled and held Eliot’s hands in his.

But Eliot doesn’t think of that. He thinks of Seb- polar-opposite and morally-gray Seb- who’s cold and _bad,_ just like Eliot. 

But then Seb becomes human right before Eliot’s eyes. Seb becomes… Rupert Chatwin. Rupert, who isn’t bad at all, not really. He’s wrong, and he’s selfish, but he’s trying to bring someone back. Someone he’d loved, someone who’d died too soon for cruel and unfair reasons. 

It’s too familiar. Too close to Eliot’s heart, too reflective of _them._

The grief ignites fiercely, and Eliot supposes it had never left. 

Eliot can’t look at Seb- Rupert the same way. Every time he looks, he sees what he’d wanted to avoid for so long. It’s a reminder of Quentin and the tirades he’d gone on about the Chatwins. The soft stories he’d told their son, their son who’d shared Rupert’s name.

He cries when Seb dies, and he isn’t sure who the grief is for.

He’d hardly cried when Quentin died, too caught up in the shock of the situation. He’d woken up and Margo was crying. He’d smiled and told her that it was okay, he was okay, and she’d cried harder. He’d asked her what was wrong and the darkness hadn’t let go of him since. 

The darkness moves a little closer now, and not for the first time, he finds himself wishing he’d disappeared right alongside the monster.

* * *

Eliot kisses Charlton and Quentin is on his mind.

Charlton is too similar to Quentin. He’s soft and he’s awkward and _brave._ It makes Eliot nauseous. It’s not Charlton that he's kissing in that moment or the moments after, and he has a sickening feeling that Charlton _knows._

He’s half undressed on the bed he’d first kissed Quentin on when tears begin streaming down his face. 

Charlton halts his inexperienced movements almost instantly, and it makes Eliot feel worse. 

He half expects one of Q’s _“did I do something wrong?”_ , but this _isn’t_ Q. It’s Charlton, the only other person who’s lived in Eliot’s mind and survived. 

Charlton just glances around the room and says, “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized.”

Eliot looks at him, at a man who he cares about, a man who he _could_ love, but a man who would never be Quentin. “That’s not your job,” he says, soft. And that’s happened more often since he lost it all. He’s soft now, harsh edges sanded down to curves. There’s no semblance of who Eliot had been before. No pompous or pride. He’s a shell, and when he sees the grief in Charlton’s eyes, he realizes that everyone else already knows. “It’s not your job, Charlton.”

“I’m _supposed_ to know you! That _is_ my job!” His eyes are heartbreakingly big, and Eliot’s only cruel thought is that they’re the wrong color. Charlton drums his fingers on the crook of Eliot’s neck. “I should’ve… we should’ve gone somewhere else.” Then, “We shouldn’t have done this in the first place.”

“That’s not fair.”

 _“Life ain’t fair.”_ It’s a strange accent, the one he takes on, familiar almost. “It’s what you said to Alice, right? Outside of Plover’s house?”

Eliot can’t remember. The memories before the mosaic are all a little hazy now, like he’s looking through stained glass. “Is it bad that you know my memories better than I do?”

“The point is,” Charlton says, lacking the impatience that Margo might’ve, “you were one of _two_ people burdened with living two lifetimes. Now you’re the only one.” He tilts his head the slightest bit, and Eliot notices his eyes are teary too. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m sorry about Quentin.”

“That… that’s not true, you know. Me and him, we weren’t the only people who have lived two lifetimes. You have too. Three if you count the fact that you have every one of my memories memorized.” He’s deflecting. Sue him.

“You were the only two to live _that_ lifetime though. I _know_ it, but I wasn’t there. They aren’t my memories to grieve. That _family_ isn’t mine to grieve.” He forces Eliot to make eye contact, and that’s when Eliot realizes just how blurry his vision is. “I care about it. About all of it. Quentin too, even if I shouldn’t.”

Eliot chokes out something painful-sounding. “I don’t know if I can… he was…”

“I’m not asking you to.”

Eliot shakes his head. “I can’t get rid of him. I don’t think I can, Charlton. I want to. I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I _do!”_ He sounds panicked, like some kind of frightened and wounded animal. “I can’t- I can’t keep _thinking_ about him. He’s always there! _Teddy_ \- he… the mosaic- it… it’s always there and it’s choking me to death, Charlton! I hate it. I _hate_ him for doing what he did.”

“You don’t.”

“He should’ve just- He should’ve listened to Alice. He should’ve killed The Monster. Why did it _matter_ to him so goddamn much?”

“It was you, Eliot. I would’ve done the same.”

“But-”

“You would have done it for him. You would do it for me because that’s who you are.”

 _“You’re_ good. _He_ was good. I haven’t done a good thing in my whole goddamn life.”

“The mosaic was good.”

Eliot almost winces. “The mosaic was… that was a one in a million chance. _He_ built that. Teddy was… he wasn’t even-”

“He was your son too.”

Eliot lets his head drop to Charlton’s chest. The grief is heavy, and Eliot is tired.

“Believe it or not, your memories of them were more vivid than my own. They were more vivid than the ones that came after.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could just… I care about you _so_ much, Charlton. I hope you know. This isn’t just… I wasn’t trying to replace him with you.”

“I know. He would know that too. He was… he loved you with his entire soul. Every ounce of him loved you, and I wish that things had worked out. I do.” Eliot hates that Charlton sounds so genuine about it. “Quentin is gone and that’s never going to stop hurting. But I can be here if you’ll let me. I know that I can… we can create something great, Eliot. It won’t be the same, and I don’t _want_ it to be. But just because that lifetime is gone doesn’t mean that you have to deem this one inferior. This one can mean so much if you let it.”

Eliot hesitates. “What if I screw up? Or if I can never… forget?”

“You _will_ screw up,” the words sound strange in Charlton’s mouth, the way that always makes Eliot feel strangely fond. “And I don’t want you to forget. I have your remembrances too. I’ll remember with you. But Quentin loved you, so I know he would want you to _live_. Whether that’s with me or not, he would.”

Eliot pulls Charlton close. He puts his hands in Eliot’s hair, gently toying with it. Eliot sighs, teary and exhausted. “How did I manage to find the two greatest men who have ever lived?”

“Have you considered that maybe it’s because you’re one of them too?”

Eliot smiles, and he finds that it’s genuine. It’s a little broken. It’s frayed and full of grief, but it’s happy despite it all. “Smooth. Is that a pickup line from 1300s Fillory?”

“1300s?” The head tilt is back, and Eliot finds it infuriatingly adorable. He feels warm, despite the chill his grief holds- the grief that might always remain. 

Eliot’s smile grows. “Don’t worry about it.”

He kisses Charlton and the future is on his mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> fuck the writers for making me write this


End file.
